


New Year's Eve Traditions

by Kestrel337



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Holiday Exchange, John Watson Whump, Multi, OT3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 19:05:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1110444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kestrel337/pseuds/Kestrel337
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is found unconscious in an alley in Brixton. What was he doing there, and why didn't he tell Sherlock?</p>
            </blockquote>





	New Year's Eve Traditions

**Author's Note:**

> Characters not mine.
> 
> Written for Blue_eyed_1987 as part of the Holmestice December 2013 exchange. Requests I tried to hit were for the homeless network to be included, Mycroft being posh and controlling, poly relationship navigation.

He’d worked Christmas Eve and Christmas day, seeing it as his duty to the team members who had children or deeply held religious convictions. He’d been prepared to see in the new year from his desk, too, so the youngsters could kick up their heels a bit. But Sally had sent around the chart she’d made that showed how many extra hours he’d been working in the past couple of months and how little time he’d been able to spend with his own family. Because yes, Lestrade and Sherlock and John were a family, even if it was an unconventional one, and she’d be damned if she’d let them not count. Now she tapped on his office door, ready to collect the last of the paperwork before sending him home for a well-earned break. He waved at her through the glass, nodding at his ringing phone and pointing to the visitor’s chair.

“Greg Lestrade.” His tone changed in the next second. “Yes, I’m his emergency contact. Where is he?”

Sally recognized the cadence of a professional notification in the muffled tones coming from the receiver. She stood, began gathering his briefcase and jacket for a quick exit.

“Found him _where? Alone?_ Dammit, what in the hell was he… no, of course not, sorry. What can you tell me? Where should I go?” Greg rummaged on his desk before gesturing frantically to Sally. She located pen and paper and began noting down the words he fired at her. “Yeah, I’ll be there. Soon as I can.” He hung up the phone and stood staring out the window at the rapidly darkening London sky.

“Which one? Sherlock? John?” Greg startled at Sally’s voice, shook himself and began straightening the files he’d scattered in his search.

“John. A good Samaritan found him in Brixton.” He paused to swallow “He was unconscious, so they called an ambulance. I have to go.” He added grimly, “And I have to call Sherlock.”  
_______________________________________

At the hospital, he was told that John was undergoing a CT scan and shown to a small room with a table and a mismatched set of molded plastic chairs. D.I. Ellison greeted him and gestured toward a medium sized duffle bag on the table. John’s bag, which Greg realized answered the first of many questions.

“Ellison.”

“Greg. I’m sorry.” He waited a moment, watching the door, then asked, “Mr. Holmes isn’t with you?”

Greg shook his head. “I’ve not been able to reach him yet. What can you tell me, Pete?” This, he could do. Routine questions, discussing a case with the officer in charge. Pretend it was a stranger, not one of the men he’d kissed goodbye this morning. Not John.

Ellison shook his head. “We don’t know much. The call was made on Dr. Watson’s own phone, female caller didn’t give her name, said there was a man lying unconscious in the alley. Disregarded dispatch’s request that she remain until the first responders were on scene.”

There was a perfunctory tap-tap on the door-frame, and Mycroft Holmes entered the room with a passable attempt at ‘just a helpful citizen of fair London-Town’ plastered across his face. “D.I. Ellison, D.I. Lestrade. I happened to hear about Dr. Watson’s situation, and thought I might be able to offer some assistance.”

“Heard how?”

“What sort of assistance?”

Mycroft looked bemusedly between them. “A little bird told me, Mr. Ellison. And suggested that your investigation might be much more quickly resolved if you were provided with relevant CCTV data, and the recording of the 999 call.” He offered them a jump-drive. “Of course, these will need to be analyzed on the systems at your office. But I can say that, while whatever happened occurred in a blind spot, we did not see anything untoward in the time leading up to the telephone call.”

Another knock on the door-frame heralded the arrival of a handsome nurse. “You’re here for John Watson, yes? My name’s Howard. They’re going to take him right from his scan to his room.”

“How is he? Is he awake?” Greg stuffed his clenched hand in his coat pocket.

“I’m sure Doctor Singh will be glad to fill you in on Mr. Watson’s condition once he has all the details.” Howard’s voice was a study in well-practiced patience.

“Doctor Watson.” Greg spoke the correction automatically.

The nurse nodded apologetically. “They’re just reading the results of Doctor Watson’s CT scan, but overnight admission is the best course since we don’t know how long he was unconscious.” He gestured to the hallway. “I can take you to him.”

The brisk walk to John’s room was just long enough for Greg to get the rest of Ellison’s information and to hand over the memory stick. He and Mycroft were shown into a standard, but private, room. Greg looked at Mycroft, gestured around with a raised eyebrow. “This your doing?”

Mycroft lifted one elegant shoulder in a minuscule shrug. “It is usually prudent to keep Sherlock as isolated as possible from the infirm. With two notable exceptions, of course.”

Greg gave him a tight grin, then frowned in sudden remembrance. “He was supposed to be working with you today. I can’t raise him on his mobile…but if you knew about John, then so would he.”

“Yes. Well.”

“Dammit. Shit, fuck, damn it to hell.” Greg set his hands on his hips and arched his back, blew an enormous breath at the ceiling. “Alright, just tell me: is it better or worse than John being found unconscious in some back alley in Brixton?”

“Better in the immediate moment, but perhaps worse in terms of long-range impact. Sherlock was with me when I got the notification about John’s phone being used to call 999. You can understand why that is an item that is immediately brought to my attention? Good.” Mycroft glanced at the floor, back up. “I think he recognized the voice in the 999 recording. That’s when he jumped out of the car, at any rate. Directly after he’d heard the playback.”

Greg was about to insist that Mycroft find Sherlock, stop him doing anything rash, but the blond figure being wheeled into the room stole every other thought. He stuck to the corner, keeping out of the way while John was transfered from gurney to bed and various monitors were set up. No sooner had the medical team left than John was trying to sit up. Greg jumped forward, rested a hand on John’s shoulder. “Nope. Stay down, relax, just…that’s better. Good.”

John sank back against the flat pillow, gray and resigned. His lips seemed to form the word ‘sorry’, but his voice was nearly inaudible.

“What happened, love?” Greg pulled a chair closer and sat hunched toward the bed, resting one hand over John’s knee.

John blinked a few times and then closed his eyes with a groan. “No idea,” he murmured.  
____________

Sherlock looked over the walls and pavements of the alley where John had been found. There wasn’t much to see, even for him. Empty flats, a bit of trash blowing about, some graffiti. The only thing he’d found that might mean anything was a small scrap of denim and a broken off piece of pipe just beneath a fire escape. Nothing that indicated there had been a fight. For a fight it would have been; John Watson wasn’t the type to just give in, even if he’d been mugged by more than one person. But there was no sign of anything.

Perhaps someone had hidden on the fire-escape? He pulled down the ladder and scrambled up to the next level, easily reaching past a broken rung. Ah, yes, clean spots where the frost had been scraped away, carrying the grime with it. And there, a black leather glove. He picked it up carefully, but there was only the old damage. He and Greg had teased John mercilessly about tearing the nicest pair of gloves he’d ever owned within a scant week of buying them. John had flipped them both off, sewn up the tear with tidy sutures, and declared them the most personalized in London. The glove went into his coat pocket; John would want it back and there was nothing for the police to learn from it. The view into the alley didn’t tell him much, and a glance over the visible apartments and rooftops even less. The fire escape showed clear signs of having been occupied by one or two people. So had it been John, or his assailants? Had they used the fire escape to flee the scene? That would explain John’s glove…but why would John have taken off his gloves? Sherlock knew it wasn’t as easy as some people thought, removing clothing from the unconscious. The fingers would have been wrong side in, and if they’d been in such a hurry as to drop things he doubted they’d have taken the time to turn them out.

The scrap of denim, then. A belt loop from it’s size and shape, likely from a pair of high-end jeans although fabric quality wasn’t a certain indicator these days. A quick sniff told that whatever it had been torn from had been recently laundered, using the same fabric softener Greg purchased; a premium, but not uncommon, brand. Why would John have come up on the fire escape? That made more sense than muggers stealing a scrap from his jeans and a single glove. Unless they’d actually been killers, claiming the glove and fabric as trophies…no, that was a ridiculous idea. Unworthy of him. He gave his head a vigorous shake to reboot his brain, stood motionless while his thoughts reordered themselves. A shadow moved below, against the direction of the wind and behind a rusty skip. Sherlock narrowed his gaze, then quickly dropped to the ground below when the shadow revealed itself to be Wiggins.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” she greeted him. “Ain’t Doc John in hospital?”

“As well you know. The dispatcher was most distressed to learn you’d left the scene.”

She shrugged, tugged a bright blue cap more snuggly over her dreadlocks. “Don’t do for folk like me to be found nearby when things like that go down. Blame gets laid to our door, we can’t do nothing about it.”

Sherlock nodded. It was a sad truth that many cops considered homelessness to be a gateway crime. Even if she’d avoided arrest, sharing information was never a safe choice for those who lived on the street. Invisible to the authorities wasn’t the same as invisible to those who shared your circumstances; anyone she reported would find Wiggins before the cops found them. But Scotland Yard didn’t have Sherlock’s resources. “Tell me who hurt John. No harm will come to you. I will make certain of that.”

Wiggins just stared. “Never would’ve thought you’d jump to conclusions like that.”

“What?”

“Nice guy, Doc John. Has regular work, place to live, served his country. Doesn’t drink to excess, doesn’t shoot up. Guy like that gets found knocked out in an alley, cops start trying to find out who did it. Who attacked the respectable citizen.” She shook her head. “Expect it of them, always a nice surprise when they actually treat us like we’re humans. Your guy Lestrade, he’s one of good ‘uns.” She gave a little ‘tsk’, pursed her lips. “Figured he’d got that from you, for all you’re so posh. But here you are, assuming someone beat up your pal, just because he was in a bad way, and got found in a bad place.”

Sherlock frowned at her.

Wiggins gave him a feral grin. “Only one I know for sure hurt him, is you. What happened today, that was an accident. We were having tea.” She gestured to the apartment building. “He climbed out, same as always. Dropped his glove. Bent down to grab it and slipped, went over the side and caught his jeans on the loose rung on his way down.” She demonstrated, hooking two fingers near her hip and giving a jerk. “Thought it might stop him, but that metal’s so old it just snapped right off.” She mimicked snapping a stick, made a popping noise with her lips. “Still looked like he might be okay, but he went down wrong and hit his head on the pavement.” She shook her head. “Judges be all over you if you don’t stick the landing.”

“John fell. From the fire escape.”

“Yep. So I climbed down after him, made sure he was still breathing, called 999 on his mobile. Sat with him, just like this,” -she held cupped hands apart as if supporting someone’s head and keeping it still- “’till I heard them coming down the alley. Then I got gone.”

He nodded distantly, watching it all happen in his mind. “You said he left ‘Same as always’. Having tea with John is a regular thing, then?”

“Nah, not what you’d call regular. Just when he comes round to all of us in the network, brings us presents. Strange way to celebrate a birthday, but it’s tradition now.”

“John’s birthday is in the fall.”

“Not his birthday, idiot. Yours.”

“Mine? That doesn’t make sense. Why would he be celebrating my birthday?”

“Dunno. Maybe because he loved -sorry, that’d be loves now, wouldn’t it?- you. Don’t see it, myself.”

“And the presents?”

“Brings us things like socks, lady supplies, those hand warmer things. Shoes, maybe. Hats.” She raised her eyes to the bright sky blue one she wore, then took in Sherlock’s expression. “Never say you didn’t know.”

She wasn’t upset that he spun away and fled without saying goodbye; she’d have been in a hurry too, if there’d been that much love awaiting her presence.  
___________

John tended to be a restless sleeper at the best of times. In pain, distressed and confused by Sherlock’s absence, and denied pain medication, Greg considered his uncertain drift between awake and asleep a major victory. For himself, he accepted a more comfortable chair and refused all offers of liquid refreshment. John needed him here, right here in this spot with his hand resting over John’s wrist. The last time he’d removed it John had begun twitching and muttering, calming only when the physical contact was restored; this was no time to skip out to the gents. Mycroft was in the hallway, muttering with his assistant. From time to time he stepped into the room, met Greg’s eyes and shook his head. Still no answers then. John stirred in his doze, and Greg ran a gentle finger over the back of his hand. His hand that was smooth and unblemished. Unlike the wrist and elbow of his non-dominant side, there was no swelling on this arm, no developing bruises. He cast his eyes over John’s face, trying to see past pale, wan, please just rest love, rest and recover. Instead, he took in the smooth skin that bore no evidence of violence. He knew from his talk with Dr. Singh that the concussion had been caused by a blow to the back of John’s head, that one ankle was badly sprained but not broken, that there were bruises to his waist and groin but no other suggestion of a sexual assault. Taken all in all, he was beginning to think-

“He wasn’t mugged.” Sherlock was slumped in the doorway, Mycroft’s hand on his shoulder. “You’ll want to stand down the investigation. There was no assault. He fell. This-” Sherlock gestured toward the bed but kept his voice to a harsh whisper. “This is all because he fell from a fire escape and landed badly. Fell from a fire escape in Lauriston Gardens. The site of our first case together.” He couldn’t hold the fierce stare he aimed at Greg, blinked furiously as he turned his face away and asked in a terrible voice, “Why wouldn’t he tell me? Why didn’t you?”

“Sherlock?” Greg wished he knew which unpaid account had just come due.

Mycroft guided his brother to the other chair, pressed him into it. “Obviously you’ve been to the scene. Go on then, brother dear. Take us through your discoveries.”

The snide tone earned him a glare, but Sherlock did come back to himself a bit. “I discovered nothing of consequence at the scene. But there was a witness: Linnea Wiggins.”

“Your recruiter?”

Sherlock nodded, then continued his explanation. “It’s her voice on the 999 recording. She and John had met for tea at Lauriston Gardens. At the meeting’s conclusion, he slipped and fell from the fire escape. She called for an ambulance and remained with him until the paramedics were heard in the alley.” He held up a hand to forestall the next question. “She fled the scene for pragmatic reasons. Because she is homeless, she feared being suspected of causing John’s injuries. A fear that is not groundless.” He tipped his head back, infinitely weary. “She also revealed to me the nature of John’s errand. It seems that in my absence, he began a tradition of celebrating the anniversary of my birth by visiting the members of my network and giving them various useful items.”

Greg’s mouth opened in an ‘Oh’ of realization. “That’s what he was doing in Brixton!”

“Indeed. I assume you knew about this, Greg. Mycroft?”

The elder Holmes shook his head and saved Greg having to answer. “I knew nothing of the practice until now. It does seem a very fitting sort of tribute, and quite typical of your doctor.” He picked up his overcoat. “I perceive that you have many things to discuss, and that my presence is now superfluous. May I express my hope that the rest of this year finds you all in happier circumstances than today? Do keep me updated on Dr. Watson’s condition.” The door closed quietly behind him.

Sherlock and Greg stared at each other for a long moment. A soft sigh drew their attention to the man in the bed. “So that’s what happened.” Relief overlay the fatigue and pain in John’s voice.

“Yes. But, John. If Wiggins hadn’t seen you fall, if…if…if it had been an assault, as we feared, you could have been lying there for hours before someone found you. Lying there still, in the cold and the dark-” Sherlock’s voice broke, and he clenched his jaw for a long moment. “You shouldn’t have been there, John. I don’t understand why you do this thing. Obviously Greg knew about it. Why could you not tell me?”

“Sherlock,” Greg said, warningly.

“No, Greg. It’s okay. Don’t want him fretting.” John weakly lifted his hand and Sherlock moved quickly to take it in both of his own. “Sherlock, love. I started doing it after you jumped. It kept you alive, for me and the others who believed in you.” John closed his eyes briefly, squeezed both their hands in a silent request for patience. “Wish they could give me the good stuff. No, they can’t, I know. Hands off the call button, Sherlock. No narcotics for patients with concussion; don’t usually work that well, anyway.” He took a couple of cleansing breaths, then opened his eyes again. “So. I was doing it to keep your memory alive. Then you came back, and you wanted everything to go back the way it had been. But it couldn’t. That time changed me. And I know, I know, it changed you. There are things you do now that you didn’t do then. The way you look out the windows, check the street outside, before you leave the flat. That anti-theft belt you wear so you’re never without cash. The photo you keep on your phone.” At Greg’s questioning look he simply said, “The one of all of us, from that last Christmas party.”

“But that was what, three phones ago?”

“Four.” Sherlock corrected him. “It’s the first thing I transfer. It was a reminder, when I was away. I didn’t think anyone had noticed.”

“Saw it when I scrambled your contacts.” John blinked sleepily and they all shared a grin. It had been a memorable prank. Then he sobered again and continued, “But see, that’s the point, love. You keep it because it reminds you. Because even though you’re back, and we’re all together and mostly pretty happy, we can’t pretend that what went before didn’t happen.”

“But you didn’t tell me. Nobody told me.”

“Did you tell us about the picture? When you asked me for money to replenish your stash, because you couldn’t stand to be without it just as far as the cash-point, did you explain?”

“I don’t-” The words were pinched off. He cleared his throat, nodded inquiringly toward the plastic pitcher of ice water. John gave him the go-ahead and waited while he drank deeply and refilled the cup. “I don’t like to talk about that time. And you don’t like to hear it.”

“You’re right. You’re absolutely, exactly right. None of us like to talk about it. And mostly that’s okay. As long as nobody is expected to forget it. Carrying our picture, never being without running away money, those are things you did to get through the hard stuff. Taking supplies to the homeless network, that’s what I did.”

“You’re saying that you continue to do so because you want to be reminded of my death?”

“NO.” The shout was ill-advised and he sat back with a groan. Greg smoothed his hair, urged him to relax.

“I think I can take it from here. Just give me a sign if I’m getting it wrong.” He turned to Sherlock. “He doesn’t do it to be reminded of your…nope, can’t say it. You know what I mean. He does it to remind himself that he was strong enough to get through it. That there was still purpose in his life, and that there were people around who believed in you and in him. That’s why he keeps it up.”

“Without it, I wouldn’t have been worth coming back to.” John’s eyes begged him to understand. “And now, I do it to remind myself how much better it is with you here.”

Sherlock was silent for a long while, mulling over all John and Greg had said. It was true enough that he kept a miserly grip on the memories of his time away. He’d never told them how, whenever he had a spare and private moment, he would gaze at the photo on his phone until it grew blurry in his sight. How he still sometimes touched a fingertip to their faces on the tiny screen, the image a talisman against a wide variety of demons. If visiting the homeless served a similar need, it wasn’t to be taken away. Not by him.

“I have just one more question.”

John sighed. “Yes?”

“Next time, can we go together?”


End file.
